


Gallery

by Doomsteady



Series: Spotlights [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Best Friends, Bisexual John, Exhibitionism, Fluff, John can't help himself, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neurosis, Public Masturbation, Sherlock protects those who are different, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doomsteady/pseuds/Doomsteady
Summary: It had been Sherlock's idea for John to always carry his coat with him, so that no matter where the urge struck, John could touch himself safely. The pair found themselves in a quiet art gallery in New York at the conclusion of their latest case, and just when John thought he was safely hidden behind his coat, Sherlock took it from him and walked away.In full view of the security cameras, and with his cock in hand, he just. Couldn't. Stop.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While each of these vignettes can be read stand-alone, there is a sort of continuity between them, and if you haven't read the first in this series (Rainbow) I'd highly recommend it! It sets up the unusual relationship and explains just exactly what John's deal is with touching himself in public. It's just as short as this one (~1600 words) and well worth the time, I promise!

John stood holding his padded coat in front of him while Sherlock rattled off the last details of his deduction to the gallery owner. Their current case had brought them all the way to America, to the heart of New York, chasing the leads of an international art smuggling operation. They’d already apprehended the perpetrators and recovered the artwork, and now the detective was wrapping up the case by explaining how it had all happened.  
  
“…All that remained was the act itself, and that was the easy part. Having looped the security footage, the thief then observed and followed the flow of traffic around the room, carefully choosing his moment to slide the painting out of its frame and roll it into a tube hidden within his coat. He did this entirely undetected, despite there being no less than twelve other people in the room at the time. Daylight robbery; you’d be surprised just how much you can get away with in public without anybody noticing.”  
  
He delivered the last bit with a knowing glance at John, who hid his grin behind a scratching of his nose. His other hand was already preoccupied at the front of his jeans. His cock was out, albeit hidden under the coat, and he was stroking himself covertly.  
  
Sherlock had come up with the coat idea several weeks ago, and so far it was proving itself an invaluable tool for his secret wanking pursuits. It gave John many more varied opportunities to play with himself in plain sight, so long as he held the coat a certain way to cover his groin, and left Sherlock free to act more naturally in public, rather than always having to be in John’s space to shield him from wandering eyes. It was a little safer this way, which was a weight off both their minds.  
  
The gallery owner, Mrs Patterson stood between them, with her back to John while she spoke to the detective. “You are as good as they say, Mr Holmes. Very good indeed. I can’t thank you enough for your assistance in this. That piece was a priceless work of art; our reputation would have been utterly destroyed had it not been recovered in such a timely fashion.”  
  
She then reached into her handbag, producing a cheque book and pen. Sherlock glanced sideways at his friend, lifting his brows in a promising gesture. He knew this was John’s favourite part of a case: _Payday_. John slipped his hand down further, indulging to massage his bollocks while Mrs Patterson wrote a truly pleasing number of zeros in the ‘Amount Payable’ field of the cheque.  
  
“Oh, I also have these—” she added, and produced two slips of what looked like tickets of some kind, but John didn’t get a good look at them before they were handed over. Sherlock flashed her a polite smile before pocketing them without a second glance. “I was going to go with my husband, you see, but all this has thrown our plans into disarray. You can do whatever you like with them.”  
  
“Thank you very much, Mrs Patterson,” he replied, and she shook his hand.  
  
“I’m afraid I must leave you now, but please— feel free to enjoy the gallery while you’re here.”  
  
And with a nod and a smile to John, she hurried off towards the main exit, the clicking of her heels echoing through the quiet gallery, leaving Sherlock and John standing by the newly recovered painting on the wall. John glanced around. They weren’t alone, but true to Sherlock’s deductions the other visitors were generally filtering around the room in a clockwise fashion, rarely disturbing the pattern of traffic by turning back or crossing through the centre.  
  
Sherlock also took a moment to observe them. Then, taking John’s arm, he guided them both over to a spot by the south wall, in between the twin entrances on either side of the room.  
  
“Here should be better,” he said in a small voice, watching the discreet motion of John’s arm working himself under the coat. “You’ve been anxious for this all day, haven’t you?”  
  
John always gave his best effort to behave himself in public, but there were certain places and situations that proved too much of a temptation. Sherlock’s patience with him was boundless, never questioning the matter whenever his friend gave in to his troublesome needs. He simply did what he could to accommodate him, trusting that John had done everything he could to resist the urge, and never did John detect any amount of shame or disappointment when he couldn’t hold back any longer— only acceptance.  
  
“Places like this set me off the worst,” He muttered shakily. “All quiet and highbrow. The more inappropriate it is… you know. God forbid we ever have to visit Buckingham Palace,” he chuckled nervously, and Sherlock’s eyes crinkled with his smile.  
  
John had never known a friendship like this. He’d never trusted someone so completely. The looks Sherlock would give him during these moments were completely readable and honest, full of warmth and concern. When they first met, John would never have dreamt that Sherlock would become his personal talisman, watching over him and affording him a level of freedom to act in public in ways he never thought would be possible. And while there would always be an inherent risk in allowing him to do this, his friend’s judgement was unerringly reliable.  
  
It was true, too, that Sherlock enjoyed these moments almost as much as he did. Not in a sexual way — as Sherlock had never had that kind of feeling — but he seemed to genuinely enjoy finding ways to keep John happy and entertained, and he didn’t believe in trying to repress or pretend that people weren’t simply _who they were_. And John was a man with a drive that could only be fulfilled in a certain way. The fact that it was technically considered illegal was of secondary concern in Sherlock's eyes to the more important matter of John’s wellbeing.  
  
John was watching a pair of older ladies almost-but-not-quite looking their way, when Sherlock leaned in and spoke in his ear. “I’m going to go look around. Will you be alright on your own for a bit?” John nodded in reply, but balked when Sherlock took the coat from his arm and began sauntering away with it.  
  
“Wait!” He whispered, grabbing his arm. “I need that— Sherlock! There’s _cameras_ here!”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock theatrically looked around at the ceiling. “So there are. I wonder if anybody’s watching through them?” And with a coy grin, he prised John’s hand away and left him standing there, his fly undone and his cock out in full view.  
  
 _“Sherlock!”_ John hoarsely called after him, but he was already across the room and pointedly not paying any attention. The other visitors idled and shuffled slowly between displays around the gallery, and none of them were currently looking his way, but he knew that could so easily change at any moment. And despite the very real danger of discovery, John simply couldn’t stop himself; he was rooted in place, terrified and excited, his heartbeat racing. He couldn’t make himself tuck it back in or turn around to hide it; the risk only spurred him on, a singular thrill that coiled tight like a spring in his abdomen, urging his hand to fly faster over his stiff and blushing dick.  
  
Sherlock had no control over this situation from his position across the room, and neither did John; this was _so_ dangerous. But even as he was cursing Sherlock’s choice, he was unabashedly loving this— exposing himself in full view of the security cameras, jerking his penis to a room full of art aficionados. All it would take is for just _one_ of them to glance over their shoulder, and soon the whole room would become witness. And even if they did, not even that would stop him. His brain was locked on target, unshakable. He almost _wished_ they would turn and see him now; the very thought of it made his cock twitch in twisted delight.  
  
John chewed his lip anxiously, his eyes darting between them and Sherlock, who still appeared to be ignoring everything in favour of studying a piece of abstract art on the wall. But it was just for show. Sherlock knew full well just how much this turned John on, this feeling of free-falling without a safety net, and he exploited it beautifully at times like this. The room was so quiet he could hear a pin drop, and the wet sounds of his slick erection pumping through his fist was loud and obvious to John, even if nobody else seemed to hear it.  
  
He felt the familiar pressure building as his balls filled up with sperm. Sherlock had turned to face him now, always seeming to know with a keen sixth sense when John was getting closer. He watched John from afar, locking eyes with him but making no attempt to move in, and John’s speeding heartbeat hammered with a heady mix of fear and excitement that pulsed in his ears and through the veins of his cock.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted someone turning towards the front of the room where John stood jerking himself. His stomach flipped in horror, his balls drew up tight and he barely held back a cry as he came suddenly into his fist, his free hand clenching tightly onto the material of his jeans as he striped the polished marble floor with ropes of warm cum. In an instant Sherlock was by his side, holding the coat to him protectively, and through watery eyes John saw that he’d blocked the visitor’s line of sight with expert timing.  
  
John gripped his coat, taking a moment to steady himself, before putting his softening penis away and giving his friend the hardest glare he could manage given his sleepy, post-orgasmic state.  
  
“You _arse_. That was—”  
  
“Fantastic?”  
  
“—Risky as hell. And yes, fantastic.”  
  
Sherlock grinned at him, quite satisfied himself by the outcome. “Like I said: All it takes is a little observation, and to pick the moment carefully. I kept an eye on them, John. I wouldn’t have let them discover you.”  
  
John knew it to be true, and it was one of many things he’d grown to cherish about his friend. He slipped into his coat and they made a speedy exit, before someone were to discover the messy evidence of his misdemeanour. Sherlock later informed him that the gallery cameras still hadn’t been fixed, so there wasn’t any incriminating video footage. And nobody would assume the spill was a bodily fluid; more likely, someone having smuggled a drink past the security guard and then spilling it accidentally.  
  
“The perfect crime,” John mused, and they giggled about it on the taxi ride back to the hotel.


End file.
